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THE LITERARY 0 ART MAGAZINEOF EAST CAROLINA UNIVERSITYBeat:"""> aia

The Rebel is published for and by the students of EastCarolina University. Offices are located in the PublicationsBuilding (Old Cafeteria) on the campus of ECU. This issue volume33, and its contents are copyrighted © 1991 by the Rebel.All rights revert to the individual artists upon publication.Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor may any part bestored in any information retrieval system without thewritten permission of the artist.The Rebel invites all students, faculty, and alumni to voice theiropinions and/or make contributions. Inquires should be addressed tothe Rebel, Mendenhall Student Center, East Carolina University,Greenville, NC 27858-4353Pie Pe he eeeo uhins 0h

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ete ROMP SH MasYb UA Co ACR TS1 It's Just a Matter of SkinKiyomi A. Talaulicar 47 Tornado Dream Series: No. 3Scott Eagle24 startin Gateac mMC Hammerhead wie :42 David #11David C. Behrens COR Weer25 Tool Study |Ray Pucket27 Untitled _Robert G. Wilson IV34 Portrait of DeniseSusan Luddeke = No coroner43 Prisoner of War 39 Return to Hui TsungDavid Stanley Ben Hill35 Night Train :Kerth Hobgood oh Toning A ely eee46 Shaka Zulu 10 Fish BoTony Nichols Scott Eagle43 Currency | 40 Dirty StoriesRichard Haselrig David W. Yarbrough33 Art Mark Logo 44 UntitledTodd Houser Charles Massey26 Pool Vac 36 Boogie Man BusterTodd Houser Stephen B. Schandel Jr33 album coverKevin Brown32 Silver CrescentMichelle Scott38 Jacket _Andrea Fisk38 NecklaceTina Bambauer6 1669 E. 9th StreetLauren Schiller17 My Shadow FliesKaryn Jones30 Mr.BusinessmanKiyomi Talaulicar29 Night Wing is ComingBen Bus28 Looking For What SacredPatrick Dougherty47 AscentMaia Sampson

ee .o ihe ve ee «- a o a. 7 7 wet ee & = rem +. as - >: pega te A CLAS ELIE GAS EAE Ri LAE OUBEE LE LE ATM PD oben om mete sow ee trae .. ° . cn atee eed onsg OP LSP NOP ee ka eS ee F-. pane by APA F% Te ere LET, los os te Pee he omer Saars wees0 °CONTENTSpee eG bene7 Pura VitaDoug Smith9) Guys and DollsJoseph P. Campbell| 6 NightfallDavid C. Behrens1 9 Wooly WormsKaren E. Beardslee[2 CS S E 8 Coming Out After Two Week Illness |Deborah P. Griggs1 8 The Heat of the MomentJoey Jenkins20 Burgundy Plum BleachersGillian Ashley 45 Doug Smith44 Father's DayJoseph P. Campbell48 After TapsStephen Schaubach1 1 Second StorySusan Ambert52 Nothing To Preserve Without LightTodd LovettSPRING feta

Baal 1997)Lauren Schiller1669 E. 9th Streetintagliompg hE ERD Seeate LOAVES Re

. ~- a FS ew, CA FIR we a al * Be rR -"- a oh lalla nie ene WH Dw ee we ee eee ee T '* . : . :° - ° a ay > »C228 FU GAS AL ak te Shee Mma fi Ds~ teen oe 2 -. _ Pa -> var ee: . A eh ee weae . © aPura VidaStanding in the middle of rainlike hard white lines drilling earth,we mourn the death of our bus,and stand stranded on a hillsomewhere in Central America.At least there is diversion"Salon El Descanso, the sleepy bar.inside a tico pleads for lovewith a shot of RonRico on the side.His Spanish is chopped and searching /like an exchange student's,but his old buzz penetratesdeeper than we have known.Later, chickenscluttered with mudstrut and heckle us,the gringos performing a meager Munder the influenceof rum and boredom,under the breezing clouds,under the weather.erengueBehind us, dogs chasein ever-widening circles,a distant scream travels the humid air.We see, for the first time.how the road plungesinto the enigma of fog.And | listen,in the cloudTs low driftfor the sound of a smile,that slight smackle of lipswhich tells me of your small,perverse JOY.Doug SmithSPRING fia

GET 997Coming Out After Two Weeks IllnessImakeittothe endofthe graveldrivethen slowly cross the dirt road wherethe mailbox grows up from the ground.Aslleanonthe pasture fencehorses snortinto the mid-afternoonsunleaving shadowswhere theirheads weave in and outofthe overgrown grass,andour white house is hidden by thehilly lawn,Untilthey sing,I~munaware thatthe birdshavecome,settlingintheredmaple atthe edge of the yard.They startle me, their voices ringing,the breeze lifting my dress,dust clinging to my barefeet.The mailbox opens under pale hanasto finda postcard from Australia.On the frontabrown beach glistens with rowsof busty girlsin tiny rainbow bikinis.White hotels rise inthe back. Andscrawled amidstthe postmarksHiDeb,Smile. Life isgood,Kate.Deborah Price Griggs~P'Seeiete d

Seren ty RM SAE lk DO oe Rte. eee "- " ee m= Pn meme er " ~ 7. >" Pe ea oS ee lh i Sd ee ». eS OO et cae a mar i - . __ Fr. ~ - err ee : Pe AMMA wee Pero Uses »)- pa ep bp in 5 abr ne haee Se TAY Le 8.8 8 OF .a _" , bed . ~Guys and DollsWhen | wasfive, | pittedGirdled protection against bridled possession,Sidedless often with cigarettedRings circling air with chokedSmoke. Bysix, learned by rote what PinkAndBluestoodfor. Still, brot-Herstangledinthe floor, broughtFrustrations to stage: We pittedG.|. Joe against Ken overthe pink-Less triangledslope weT dkillfo POSSESS.Barbie just satthere while we choked 9Each other, usedcigarettesFor swords welacked. Even thencigarettesWere phallic,even thoughDad broughtSymbols to us muchlater. We chokedOnourlaughter, thought it was pitifulWe didn't possessKnowledge of things pink,Freudianorvirginal. Afterall,weTdprickBarbieTs unsex with those cigarettes,Thenlie back as we positionedHerontop, cheap whore inabrot-Hel. Intheimagined moistness ofher unpitJoe alwayssmoked, never choked. |But Ken, the pansy-man, would chokeAtthe slightest quiver of BarbieTs uNpiINK.With ourvery-young eyes, all Blue, weT dpret-Endthatshe liked those cigarettesCrushed againsther plastic pelvis: itbroughtHertoherknees, anew position.Afterall wasdone & done, the positionWeheldwasthis: Ken would always chokeDue to our flat-footed realities. But broughtfrom deep within moist, pinkLayers of imagination,| knew mycigarettesWouldstand firm against herfanciedpit.Andif|did choke. itwas herfault, herpitThatwasn~tpositioned correctly. Not mycigaretteFailing to bring herfleshy colorto bright pink.Joseph P. Campbell~SPRING

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Co eS eee abe ett i ipene © of? sare dial Snin Vin sinsecesese © - ae Meet OPE eT vee et~ st 4 vgs x eae gy nag Spe 7 Se rt . eenen tee saves lal SRE Bene oe rain iss P ° ee tit ARGO AE " at hAU AME 20,+ » e . ned * * e- or aaa iol bs ede« eset oct 7se ss 8-By Susan ANOeyaloProblem?? | had to speak loudly over the noise ofthe traffic. He turned his head with a surprised look.oWhat??oT asked if you hada prI can help you with??He inched along the lepoliteness, and looked down at the street below.oThanks ... I think ITve got it covered from here.? ,oWell, O.K..? I said and turned back to thetelevision. The commercials had ended and my soapopera came back on. That day was a Wednesday so thewhole thing was pretty boring " they always keep thegood stuff for Fridays so you'll be in suspense all weekend.| kept waiting for my favorite character, Court McNeil, toappear. He and C ynthia were being held prisoner TSO Lefictional Central American country that week, and I waskind of hoping Cynthia would be executed or something.SheTs such a whiner and doesnTt deserve a guy like Court.oblem " is there somethingdge toward me oul of

12GE 1 997)The soap was really bad, and I wasjust beginning to look forward to thecommercials when I realized I hadnTt eatenanything all day. I grabbed a box of pop-tarts off the shelf and went back to mywindow seat. That window is my favoritething about the whole apartment. The frameis really big and the bottom of it, which isonly about eight inches off the floor, extendsinto a sill big enough for me to stretch out onand still leave room for my house plant. |love to leave the window open as far as I canto let in fresh air. It would all be verypicturesque except opening it also lets inthe noise " police sirens and awful musicfrom radios in the park across the street "and from where I sat that day I could see aman on the ledge.Noticing his lightweight dressclothes, I called to him.oDonTt you need a sweater? ItTs alittle cold out there.?o*T didnTt plan to be out here for long,and if itTs so cold why are you sitting at anopen window??Good question, I thought. I didnTtknow what to say to that so instead I just satthere. I didnTt care if he wanted to be alone.In my opinion, if youTre standing on a ledgethen youTre asking for an audience " andthis was lots more interesting than the soapopera. Finally, I thought of something toSay.oPop-tart??THe must have stared at me for a fullten seconds. I waved the box.oTm not going to eat this otherone.?oWhat kind is it??oUm " blueberry.?oSure.? He scooted over to mywindow, and I handed him the other pop-tart. He nibbled contemplatively at it for aminute and then offered me his hand.~o~NameTs Michael Adams.?oHi,? I said. oITm Jane Elliot.?oNice to meet you, Jane Elliot,? hesaid, a touch sardonically. oAnd youTreright, I should be wearing a sweater, itTs justI figured that with my brains spattered allover the sidewalk I wouldnTt be a prettysight anyway.?oGross,? I said, looking at thesidewalk down below. oConsidering thatthis is only the second story, I donTt thinkyour brains would spatter though. . . unlessyou did a swan dive, maybe.?He looked embarrassed.oRight again. Guess I should haveresearched this art more thoroughly.?oYou can try again tomorrow fromhigher up. In the meantime, why donTt yougo back to your apartment " youT re the onewho just moved next door, arenTt you? "get a sweater and then come back over herethe normal way so we can be properlyintroduced.?I donTt normally invite over totalstrangers, but I was just in a weird moodthat day. The whole of the morning (beforemy soap opera) and most of the previousnight had been spent on my newest piecewhich I call oPortrait of the ArtistTsDaughter.? The fact that I am childless isnota hindrance " in fact, I find itreassuring.Nobody can ever say it doesnTt look likeher. I felt bad watching Michael creep backon the ledge to his window, but I didnTtwant to just invite him to hop in my window.You never know when a seemingly decentguy can turn out to be a weirdo.By the time he arrived at my door,freshly scrubbed and clad in his same outfitonly with a sweater and tennis shoes, I hadthrown my dirty clothes into the bedroom,turned off the television, and was workingon a salad for lunch. He sat down at thekitchen counter and I handed him a tomatoto cut.oSuppose you tell me why youwanted to turn yourself inside out on St.Paul Street,? I suggested.oAll right, but you wonTt believe99me.oSomehow, I think I will,? I saidand looked him straight in the eye to showthat I was sincere. I already felt like I'dknown him for years " he was one of thosepeople that you could swear youTd metbefore.oT had a job interview today.?Ick, Ithought. A job story. Well, atleast his girlfriend didnTt dump him.oBut what really started it was lastYS

here eer oe "_ e ouentnay Brine_ = > lt eesCLR FUE ARS EARN Ta Re LUG ME BEP BALE ABE Be Pa opr om em we rmanight my girlfriend dumped me.?I picked up the fork from where I'ddropped it and threw it back in the sink fora rewashing., oWell, she wasnTt really mygirlfriend " just this person from workT vebeen seeing. Her nameTs Linda. Last nightwe went out to eat and right in the middle ofeverything she told me she couldn't see meanymore. Well, I thought she meant that therestaurant was too dark, so I jumped up tofind the waiter to bring us another candle,but when I got back she had left. There wasno sign of her left except a napkin with oMyPlace? written on it.?oThat doesnTt sound too bad,? I said.oThat was the name of the restaurant.I didnTt know what to do. I paid the checkand went home to call her. When she finallyanswered, she told me that she canTt go outwith me because she doesnTt respect me.Linda said that when she talks to me shegets the feeling that ITm not all there. Shecalled me an... . ~Ozone Ranger.T SO ofcourse I got mad and told her that at least Ihave some creativity and donTt balance myCheckbook for fun... .?oNot smart,? I said. He ignored meand continued to chop the poor tomato intotiny little pieces.oSo she said that creativity wasn'tmuch use if it never took the form ofsomething tangible and that she could bet IdidnTt know the Pythagorean theorem.?oAnd what did you say??oNothing. I hung up.?I stopped breaking spaghetti noodlesand raised my eyebrow at him.oI donTt know the Pythagoreantheorem. This is done.? He sprinkled thetomato bits into the salad bowl. oMind if |play your piano?? He walked over and trieda few opening notes of oMoonlight Sonata?which was the piece that was sitting on thelid. [had been trying to play it for the entireweek, but I donTt read music very well.oSo what about the interview??oOh, that was for a promotion and IdidnTt get it. I was doing really well untilthe last part. They asked mea word problem.~If Train A is moving due South at eightymiles per hour and Train B is going West_.T " one of those.?oNo way!? I said.oWay,? he countered. oI hate math.?He struck a few more ominous chords.oIf youTd jumped, you would havebeen one more statistic,? I said. oYouwould have become what you hate.?Michael paused a moment and thenlooked up at me with a smile.oRight again, Jane Elliot. | donTtthink I really wouldTve done it.? He eyedthe big dish of spaghetti I had made.oYou should find a better way todeal with your aggression. ThatTs why Ihave a piano. Would you like to stay forlunch??oThanks. I wish I'd known youwere going to ask me before. I wouldn'thave put all those tomatos in the salad.?He grinned and struck a horriblediscor oI hate tomatos!? he told thepiano.13~SPRING a

14Raat 1991Carol TorrellCat Tails , Doughnuts and Cinnamon Rollscharcoal

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16GI 1991NightfallThe shy current of duskWashesaway the voice ofthesun.Wind suspendedlike afeathersearchingClouds catch their breathin slumber,Shadows climbincool,slow stridesSettling into the warm cleft ofthe meadow.Throughthe dim veilofsolaceAlowly pigeon pausesPerchedin silhouetteNestled against cold brick.Awingedreminder that alllifeMust comeAnd rest.David C. Behrens

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18GI 1991The heat of the momentWhen you killed your best friend today,lsaw you.Greedily youslipped behind him, pointed your tiny fingerandemptied its chambers a dozen times into his heart-pakow pakow pakow pakow pakow pakowpakow pakow pakow pakow pakow pakowHe giggled ashe spiraled dramatically to the ground,his brown and green finger-painted face contorted,his body wrigglingin the cool,damp Bermuda grass.That night,|saw youtwo under the streetlight you had shot outwith an airrifle, shuffling through the bits of splintered glasswhile the stars arched silently above.And there! was,halfway around the world,looking up atthe emptiness of a foreign sky, the stars dyinginthe glow of asmoldering village three klicks north in the jungle,smoke rolling skyward like a pitcher pouring water upside down.Fumes from the Napalm scorched my lungsthe way the realization of it allburns my brain.He lay atmy feet-no olderthan yourself,with arifleinhishand- helay there quiet, still,and coolingasthe ground became soggy andred with his blood.Itonly took one shot.Joey Jenkins

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*« " aseS een: awe a eePS OOD,CLES FU Y GAS ESI eR Oe CBSO Re Fe BAB Bia Fea fae © mae ~~. Prong O28 Le PLSD, mma's sixteenthbirthday party struggled oneven after she and I left thewine bar and relocated inthe park. The night wascold, and the trees drippedWith old rain. Leaves stuckto Emma's black wing-tips,which she dangled off thefoot-bridge.o9 " Let's take a walk and you canat in out it first. All right?? I had toconrenyedgeag her. The vat of Grolsch shebien é ack at the bar had lubricated herpel and self-pity and made her dangerous.aah " L want to show him! It'd beoatl ry if he found me all mangled upthe ro ice She giggled and brushedovhanee * el floppy brown mohican outsili pone an argyle gloved hand. It: only a four-foot drop, but that wasn't thePoint.lp a wasn't always drunk, or evenrie : ave But it was only when she~tn ee . that she needed me. I watchedoA there, slouching to see theihe polite her knees. She was wrapped| sedegpame clothes of her own counter-ee a and the image she achieved waset gerd oToby is a self-centered jerk," |a o knew that all along. Socome on,S go for a walk.""Yeah, I suppose," she said, andpoured herself back onto the footpath. Emmathe Outrageous and her sidekick Maggiewalked into the dark wet park until the lightsof the wine bar dwindled out of sight. Butthe path was an umbilical cord attachedsomehow to its candles and half-lit cornersand smoky anonymity.A yellow sequin of a streetlamphovered before us. Emma tripped overthings that weren't there. Once my eyesadjusted I could see the concentration in herface. Her small teeth were stained brownfrom the penicillin she'd had as a baby.Right now they were biting into her lowerlip. "Do you think I did the right thing?? sheasked."Well. that's up to you. What do Iknow? I just think Toby is a pig for makingyou feel so bad. If he's willing to let you runoff all upset, then--""T'm not upset!?The smell of beer on her breath andthe odor of aging leaves were thickly sweettogether. | could hear her stumbling besideme. Step, step, stagger, drunken giggle,step.... I took my hands out of my pocketsso I could catch her when she fell."Bloody lovely sweet sixteen, isn'tit," she said."Sorry," I said, and I really wassorry. "We'll celebrate at my house later. |wasn't going to tell you, but I baked you acake. Happy birthday!?"What sort??"Strawberry, your favorite.at myself for remembering that."But my favoriteTs chocolate chip,silly! .. Thanks, though.""Oh." I put my hands back in my(They were cold.) "You're" Tsmiledpockets.welcome.?We reached the streetlamp. Emmadrove a hand down her voluminoustrenchcoat pocket and withdrew a cigarettecase. It was antique-looking gold with a redoriental dragon enameled onto it. Thedragon's eyes were green gems, and tinypearls were embedded in the backgroundfor stars. She pressed a button in the sideand the lid flipped open, exposing a line ofMarlboros. Smoking was one of Emma'snew affectations. With the case and hergraceful, practiced motions with theSPRING [gay

22GEG 1 997)cigarette, I thought it rather suited her. Shefound a lighter and we were off again, withthe disembodied end of the cigaretteescorting us like a firefly.I remembered my own sixteenthbirthday party, four months before Emma's.A couple of friends and I split the fiftypound fee for Huntingfield Village Hall andthe cost of a bald-headed disk jockey namedMaurice. We invited a hundred and twelvepeople, so three hundred arrived. My fathercame along to help (he said). He triedhovering in the doorway, perching by theD.J., and leaning nonchalantly against walls,but he somehow didn't fit in the room. Hisred lumberjack shirt was a conspicuous blotagainst the pink and yellow flashing lights.The guests spent most of the night dancing,eating pretzels, intercepting calls from angryvillagers, and playing volleyball (with whatI later discovered was not a balloon), andtaking rides on Emma's new motorbike. Animpromptu bar was set up, despite mynervous, guilty attempts to prevent it. |worried about my father's disapproval(although I didn'thave to. "It's all part of theexperience," he'd say the next day, after wecleaned out the wretched bathroom) and Ifeared the destructive bents of my friends.In the doorway at last, I gulped frozenair and felt the space stretch out around me.I closed my eyes. When I opened them,Jonathan Marshall's face filled my entirefield of view. A thin-lipped smile bobbedunder a lumpy, irregular nose (broken twoyears ago in rugby scrum). His eyes werehuge, animated blue marbles. Goofy withalcohol and brave with seclusion, he said,oHappy birthday!" and kissed me.Jonathan dematerialized and for along time I didn't move. I stood in thedoorway like an inflatable Weeble. "Happybirthday to you," I said.Emma pounded her fist into myshoulder. "Where do you want to go now?"she asked, and I followed her toward theschool. I was even colder now because Icould feel the icy pavement through my thinshoes. Emma's teeth chattered. I lookedacross and remarked that the sides of herhead were stubbly; she'd have to shave themagain.oNahh, I think I'll grow them outnow. But I'm dyeing it purple," she said,stooping to extinguish her cigarette in apuddle. "Sort of burgundy-plum, you know.Like this." She pulled a maroon (or rather,oburgundy-plum") man's necktie out of herSometime after the coat andparty was underway . brandished it at[found that Dad had Goofy with alcohol me. Then she triedleft for the pub down and brave with seclusion, (to flick herthe road. I hid inthe drowned cigarettejungle of dancersand hoped everyonewould behave.As I joggedalong to the music,which made my ribsvibrate, I realized that I wasn'ta wholeheartedparticipant. All this foolishness probablyshouldn't have annoyed me the way it did. If[ continued in this timid, wallpaperish way,[ might miss those mystical "best years ofmy life" about which I'd heard so much.But I looked around me and sawthree hundred semi-soused teenagers flailingabout in a throbbing village hall, air opaquewith (presumably) cigarette smoke. Withmy arms pressed to my sides I squeezedthrough the choking swamp of people towardthe open door at the end of the hall.he said,oHappy birthday!?and kissed me.into a trash can aswe passed, butmissed. It landedin the branches ofa leafless bush.I'd seen thetie before. "Nice choice," I grumbled. Still,she was having fun, which was more than Icould say for myself that night. Emmaleaned heavily on my shoulder and Isupported her.[ had planned to do somethingunusual to my hair (Emma's word wasowacky") a month or two before, a streak ofcolor, just a shade lighter than my ownwheaty brown. I sat in the hairdresser's bigvinyl throne and braced myself. Afterlooking at color charts like I was picking outpaint for a bathroom, I calmly, and with

Pepe ts RAE TERE ED Seen ottas. we ee oe oo aa phe . oo wom ae .2 Pos tht eeea"LITE GAS LEER Rie LEME BEP RAAT TE BIB Pop om emer ow pm neegreat dignity, changed my mind (Emma'sword was "chickened-out"). I slid out of thechair with a trim and a sigh of relief. As Iwalked up School Road my hair kept myears warm.Emma asked, "How about stoppinghere?" and drunkenly dropped herself onthe bench outside Edgar Sewter PrimarySchool, which my little sister attended. ItWas a great Dickensian monster of a building,but Ellen liked it. Yellow streetlamp-lightreflected off the Renault-Fours outside ChrisCollinsT Garage and glittered on theWindshields. Stray raindrops fell closearound us and disturbed the puddles in theroad. Emma fidgeted with her glove."We're best mates, right? | mean...We're best mates," she managed. SheCoughed and her gray breath formed acloudin front of her."Of course. Are you okay??: "No, I'm drunk as hell," (giggle)But never mind." Her face flipped fromMerry to sullen to lunatic to sick. Her mouthOpened and closed like a guppy's. SheStared at the streetlamp as though it were anight-light, and it revealed tears balancedOn the ledges of her eyelids. She heaved amaudlin sigh and plunged in. "RememberJaffa?""Who, James?""Yeah." She lost James to aredheaded drama student at a recent party(to which I had not been invited, thankGod). After a complicated social tango,Emma found herself with Toby, whoveryone knew was dangerous when itcameto girls. She told me she didn't rememberWhat happened the rest of the night.Watching Emma hug her shoulders closeInto her body and stare guiltily at her shoes,I could guess.Slowly, I eased my arm aroundEmma's quivering shoulders. We sat stillon the bench under the quickening rain.The only sound was Emma's sobbing,punctuated by the pop of raindrops onOvercoats. My hand shook slightly on herShoulder. I had never seen her cry before.I realized that Emma's shavedhead looked . . . silly. I hadn't really spentmuch time wondering why she chose todress like a jumble sale. Hers was a verystriking image in its own way, but not one| wanted to use as a pattern anymore.The streetlamp went out. It wasone o'clock. Funny thing -- I didn't noticethe dull drone of the light until it stopped.The absence of that sound made spacesomehow wider and the air cleaner. Starswere vaguely visible in the openingsbetween rainclouds.The party would have disbandedhours ago at closing time. There was noreason to take the path back. Emma and |readjusted our scarves and gloves and setoff toward my house for strawberry cake."So. Ems," I said as our shoes slapped onthe pavement. "how does it fell to be ayaer older and wiser?" RJ23SPRING [ZANE? aes

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teenageAfter Taps48ast 1991The sun was slippingdown the front lawn whencall to quarters blew. Itechoed down the halls of thedimly lit barracks and floatedoutacross the training fields.The officer of the day readout the uniform blandly overthe PA system. oUniformfor mess three will be,? hepaused as if he was actuallythinking and said, ograytrousers, gray shirt, black tie.black sweater and dress hat.?It was winter and uncannilycold for December.Reaching up I pulled thewindow down and paused. |leaned on my window sillby Stephen SchaubachoTwo feet of virgin snow, no night officerand our Senior year,? he said staring at me,smoke whiffing from his mouth, oyouthinking whatI am thinking?? oClayton, areyou serious?? Iasked. There wasa pause andhe said, oNo, but weTre going anyway.?watching the sun sneak away.I stood there, looking up. TheSky was gray, likeus. Cloudsblanketed the horizon and leftnothing but the deafening dinof silence.Unconsciously |]about faced and paused tocontemplate the sharp snapmy heels made. The floorswere cement, cold, with agrayish dark tint to them.Gray light from outside madea path to the door, remindingme to hurry up. FormationWas in fifteen minutes.Walking to my closet, |gingerly pulled out a neatlyironed gray shirt, my favoriteone; it was Friday. CarefullyI spaced the remaining shirtstwo fingers apart. Smoothingout the wrinkles in my chest,[ unfastened my belt buckleand set it on my desk.Checking my watch] thoughtabout my parents. |wondered what they weredoing now. Certainly theyweren't shining their shoesand brass. I filled the tin ofmy shoe polish with warmwater and sat down at mydesk.I remembered myfreshman year here when myroommate, Holsinger, hadtaught me to shine shoes. I

smiled and then breathedheavily on the toe of my shoe.oMake tiny little circles usingalittle warm water, thatTs thesecret, you'll learn.? Thefollowing week we hadgotten acheck minus onroominspection because of a polishstain on my desk. [rememberhow he acted as though hehated having a freshman as aroommate. We became goodfriends and talked about ouroother? lives. The next yearhe was put on Battalion staffas an executive officer. Wewere having our outsidecompany inspection when hesquared off with me. Hechecked my uniform. oGoodshoes Mr. Slaven,? he saidand I smiled. oSomethingfunny Mr. Slaven?? oNoSir!? I found it strange thedistance the military putbetween us, yet it made mefeel closer to him when wetalked privately.Formation call blewas I finished adjusting mybuckle. Stiffly I walked outthe door and walked to myplatoon sergeantTs room.oSergeant Strickland,? I saidas he snapped to attention. |waited as he called his roomto attention.~Room ten-hut!?oAt ease,? I said,ohave you checked the ranksalready or do you enjoymarching bull ring??~Sir, I: have; sit," Resaid.oGood, then letTs getthem down stairs.?oYes sir,? he said ashe scrambled for the hall,oLetTs go first platoon, beatyour feet on company street!?Cadets rushed backand forth scurrying to getdown stairs and form up. Itwas strange, almost surreal.Only officers could walk inthe middle of the hall; theothers had to use the sides.As an officer you had to walkcautiously down the middleof the hall. After making afinal check of the barracks, Iheaded for company street.oOne hundred and eightyeight steps,? I thought.It seems funny to becounting steps, but what waseven more strange was that itseemed normal here. TherewasnTt much to do in thesmall town of Chatham. Onlytwelve hundred people livedhere and four hundred cadetsmade up the rest. It didnTteven seem like the UnitedStates, rather a small town inan unnamed country. Thingshere were old, really old. |remember seeing a sign thatsaid, oColored rest room.?Strangely enough I hesitatedand used the other oWhiterestroom.? Like I said, therewasnTt much to Chatham. OnSundays we would get townleave and go wash ourlaundry. The scene wasalways the same, a bunch ofcadets sitting aroundwatching their laundry spinaround in dryers, smokingcigarettes and lookingnervously at everyone elsedoing the same. Tonight wasprobably the most excitingday of the week. Tonight wegot to watch a movie, maybeone in color.I stopped briefly andlooked down company street.The cadets were lined up inrows, looking straight ahead.Walking up to my platoon, Isurveyed their shoes, brassand shirt tucks. As I walkeddown each rank of cadets, |saw a little bit of myself, ineach of them. Who was I toteach them how to act, whento laugh or cry? Who was Ianyway? What if theybecame exactly like me?Would we all be knockingheads at the water fountain?Better yet, what if we allbecame friends and everytime we tried to call eachother, the phone was busy?oJeese, [have to stop thinkingso much,? I thought.Returning a salute to myplatoon sergeant, I noticed afew flakes of snow startingto fall. It was cold, cold andgray and depressing. Thiswould be the first real snow,if it lasted.It was six thirty andlike clock work we aboutfaced and saluted the flag asit was lowered. I felt the eyesof twenty-six cadets on meas I held my hand steady tomy temple. The winter windwhipped around my face asthe bugle echoed down thefront lawn, across the trainingfields and into the small townof Chatham. I oftenwondered if the town stoppedwhat they were doing tocontinued next page~SPRING49

00| Gasial 1997=e eelisten. I knew the answer.Over eighty years ago, cadetsstood where I stood andsaluted the same flag pole.Eighty years from now cadetsmay stand here, right where[ am standing, saluting thisvery same flag pole. Therewas something that felt likelove running through me.Maybe it was the warmth ofmy sweater, the weather, orthe bugle playing oTo theColors.? Hell, I just feltproud.It was after dinner,after the movie (color) and itwas especially after Taps.Lieutenant Cochran, myroommate, becameoClayton? to me and |became oMatt? to him. Wehad just taken report of thebarracks and all wereaccounted for. Normally wechecked in with Lt. Cudd.the night officer. He had abig gun with rubber bulletsand he used it. During MessIII (dinner) I had heard hehad a heart attack and was inthe hospital. Clayton and Ihad waited to give him thereport sheets, but he nevershowed up. oHe really mustbe in the hospital then,?Clayton whispered.We both looked ateach other and smiled withour eyes. We opened up thewindow to take a look at thesnow. oDamn, must be twofeetat least,? I said excitedly.Clayton nodded wide eyedas he took a long drag fromhis cigarette. oTwo feet ofvirgin snow, no night officerand our Senior year,? he saidstaring at me, smoke whiffingfrom his mouth, oyouthinking what I amthinking?? oClayton, are youserious?? Lasked. There wasa pause and he said, oNo, butwe re going anyway.?A Christmasexcitement filled the air aswe put on our fatigues. oYoureally sure about thisClayton?? There was noanswer from him. oShush,?I said, realizing we might bemaking too much noise.Cautiously we crept to thestair well. There we were,walking, shirking down thesteps as if we were on amission. Finally we reachedthe foyer. We both stoppedto listen, nothing, silence.Slowly he opened the doorand we crept out into thesnow. Quietly we made ourway to the far training field,one behind the other, andme, yes, me, leading. It wasover two feet. Much morethan we had both thought. Itwas quiet, the kind of silenceonly a snow storm canproduce. Looking back I sawClayton looking back andthen I stopped. We were farfrom the campus, yet we stil]whispered. Clayton spoke.oHley man,? hepaused, oI always wanted totell you this and donTt get thewrong idea but,? he pausedagain, oyouTre my bestfriend.?oThanks man, thatmeans a lot to me,? I saidfrankly.oWould you mind ifI kissed you?? Clayton saidand we both laughed; I kickedsnow on him.oDid I ever tell youthe story about when I gotcaught shoplifting?? I knewthe answer.oUh uh, tell me,? hesaid.oWell it was me andmy brother Jamie, heTs older.We were at a drug store, forthe hell of it, checking outstuff. I saw him putsomething, I forget what, inhis pocket. I kind of gotscared, you know? Then hegot some candy and put it inmy back pocket and I gotreally nervous. I wasSweating buckets when weStarted out the door. Andthis guy, this huge NewJersey guy, stopped us andasked us what we had in ourpockets. He knew. Hegrabbed us both by the armand took us to his office.You know how the officesare in those stores. Well, thisone was different; it had awindow. He left the officeand locked it, off to get themanager I guess. My brother,who had been caught before,decided to bail. He openedthe window and got out. Helaughed and said ~Come on!TWell, I was scared, but IStarted out the windowanyway. Just about the time[ was almost out, I heard thedoor open. That big lumberjack looking guy started topull my legs, just like ITmpulling yours.?

For about an hour wesat there, in the middle of thefield and exchanged stories.It was almost as if we weren'teven there; we were free. |hadnTt felt this free formonths. It felt like schoolwas out and we were alumni,looking at the school from adifferent angle. Then, wejust lay there in the snowlooking up and neither of ussaid a word for the longesttime. Then he broke thesilence and said, oThis isgreat you know??oYeah,? I said, obutwe better get back soon.?oWhy do our teachershave to live here?? he asked.oReally, everyoneelse gets school off at homebut no, not us,? I said.We shook ourselvesoff and headed for the school,refreshed and careless. Bothof us even spoke in normaltones of voice. When wereached the door, I decidedto go first. We slipped inquietly and shut the door everso slowly. With our backsup against the wall, welistened, trying to muffle ourbreathlessness. It was warminside. Every time I moved Icould feel a warm puff of airrising from my shirt, on myface. It was dead silent. Theonly thing you could hearwas the heaters pinging. Weboth looked up as if we couldsee clear up to the hundredthand eighty-eighth step. |started to climb up when |heard foot steps. I stopped.They stopped. ItTs so damnquiet. I didnTt even want toturn my head to look atClayton, because I mightmake noise. It was a standoff. Then the foot stepsstarted again. We matchedthem with ours and started toclimb up. I rememberthinking, oWhy are we goingup, shouldnTt we be goingdown?? We could hear theother personT s footsteps; theywere solid. They engulfedours, but we still keptclimbing. Finally he spoke.The feet had a voice.oWho ever is downthere, come up here,? theysaid.oTtTs Rev. Gregory,?Clayton whispered.oCaptain Gregory, |said, oitTs me, LieutenantSlaven.?oCome here boy,now!? Capt. Gregory was anolder man, very quiet.We finally met andhe shined a flashlight on us,blinding us. I didnTt sayanything, neither didClayton. Capt. Gregorypuffed as old men do andsaid, oHere, hold thisSlaven.? I slowly grabbedhis flashlight and watched ashe pulled out a cigarette andlit it.oYou boys find~em??oSir?? I said.oThose boys thatwent outside, you find oem??oAh, no sir I thinkthey snuck back in withoutus knowing,? I said firmly.oThen I guess you'llbe going to yourrooms now,?he said.oYes sir,? I said.oMr. Slaven, whyyou smiling??oT like snow,? I said.oMe too,? Capt.Gregory said, oso you boyshave a good night.?oYes sir, good night,?9I said.I handed him hisflashlight and started up thestairs slowly, Clayton behindme.It wasnTt until after Ihad gotten to the room that Irealized what had justhappened. We both took ourfatigues off and put them inour dirty clothes bag. Iwashed my hands, thoughtabout Macbeth and got inbed. It was silent again. I laythere in amazement, myhands still wet, clinching thecovers. Clayton spoke. oIlike snow too,? he said. Ismiled,closed my eyes,andfell asleep. AJ?"? SHR emaw stam hoe peiatah e7s e:SPRINGo1

02asal 1991!NOTHING TO PRESERVE WITHOUT LIGHTby Todd Lovettfrom The Father and Son Y-Indian GuidesThe Story of the Headband,the central themethe feathered arrow designs which"extend right and left of,the central symbol.represent the useful, services of fatherand son.The fact:that the father and son,achievments are. united,inthecenter of,the design is.interpreted, to meanthat fathersand sons together underthe eye of,the great spirit, are seeking.to help eachother in: the services:they render.To the right is the symbol.of the mother and home, a lineconnectsthe mother,Symbol with the teepee or home symbol.The fact:that, it is a home.symbol is shown by the fire. in the teepeeon the left, are symbols.of father and son, theirrelationship again.is, shown by the line:that, joins the two symbols,these symbols.add to the richness. of the central theme, for it,is in service to mother and home.that many of the more.Significant achievments of,father and sonwill take, place.

oWell the truth is, the boys would go off down the road to the big pond andgo fishing. Dawn and Jerry couldn't go, and they would fish down there at thecreek.? She laughs. oCourse there wasnTt any fish down there, and they'd set outtheir lines at night and expect...? She begins to smile, knods her head laughing,picks up with o...and so Pop came by the store up there and bought a fish aboutthat long. Now honey he took a flashlight and went down there and hunted thatfishing line, it was way up by the end of the field where the deep place was, andput that fish on that line.? She chuckles. oThey got up the next morning, when theboys went a fishing, there was another boy that went with them all the time, BillyMeeks, you may of heard us talk about him. And they got up and went fishing,and Pop and | were still tryinT to sleep; | was tryinT, heTs asleep cause he workedsecond shift. So | heard, oh they was yelling, they was coming across that fieldwith that fish on that pole, you know, just waving it...? Her voice slips into a higher,soft and child-like cry, o...Oh we caught one, we caught one!?AI will write down everything I remember.The avocado-green pin-stripe pajamas arethere. The bedspread is blue, some thick andheavy fiber. Cotten? The sheets are white,but the pillowcase, Pinochio in sharp red,blue, yellow, and wood. This was a gift fromsome friends: Stephen, who is half Korean,his father, American psychologist, and hismother who wears the sad, length-painteddresses from south of the DMZ, her home.On the wall is a Buffalo Bills pennant, and itis always Christmas when I see this" anOakland Raiders fan finding a Bills pennant,winter solstice time, 1972 substitution tillwe can get the real thing" silver, black. Inthe corner big as an alter, an old TV, thereception gone forever from its glass, uselessconvex window. This doesnTt matter though,I am seven, I get a television in my room. AGE record player, Hot Wheels by Mattelsticker (lane 1, car 60...) stuck to the sea-blueplastic; records on the floor that I still havenow, Soultrain, Superfly, Ball of Fire on 45and Backstabbers. Near, a fireplace rug,those huge fingersized strands woven inconcentric ovals, lightening from brown towhite, to gold-orange, and brown boarder.And inthe childT s twin bed, my back is to theceiling, arms wrapped around Pinochio, tightlids, feet to the records and face turned left tothe dark TV screen.Some of this is real. That much, thepolaroid verifies.ASome of it I dream from memory now,camera mind wide angled backwards.The light is on" nothing to preservewithout light" but in my dream, it is dark,and like the photograph I am sleeping on theedge of awareness. Rapid eyed hours havealready come, diminished; time is late,midnight because that is far past a childTsbedtime. It must be high in the night bynow" Moon ascending" coming in mywindow through the shears, filtered shadowwhite, and violet. Short of a mile away,seventeen years for a child, I know the windwas moving in the Savanna marsh where theland, like the incoming sea, loses itself.Tide, nocturn animals, both rising in thereedy straw tangle of sinkholes, moccasins,the brackish dark: You could drown; donTtgo near the marsh.Asleep, Iam rousing, rolling my head onthe pillow, and stretching myself in the waywe only do when we feel alone. The door isopen" I have always slept with it closed"and the bright hallway is just outside, blurryas I rub to see. My father is coming into theroom. Seven years old, and still I think thisodd; bedtime is sleep, without reason, theydo not wake me. He hesitates, sees I ammoving, cleaning away the drowze, and nowI lean up on an elbow, stare blinking at hissilhouette.~What is it??contined next page| SPRING03

oSSSR STEW Were s04asae 1991)TDR ten er Cts Pee He Se oe St Mn[ mumble this, and my voice is trying tosound tired. Stretch again, this to look thepart. lam growing uncomfortable. Does heknow I have been waiting?He comes in now awkward, leaves thedoor open. From the den, I can hear thetelevision on still; in the kitchen, ceramicclinks, the dishes as mommy puts away thedinner mess.I listen well and remember sounds atseven years. Months before in a theater, I satwith my father midway down the aislewatching a movie with animals for characters,narrated disneyesque and anonymous, aninvisible hand on your shoulder, anotherpointing to: coyote, prairie dog, the deserthare.We had come looking for bigfoot.The advertisements were all sasquatch"learn about the legend, hear it, see it, trackthe footprints into Indian myth" a decoythough, fifteen minutes of added attractiontacked onto the wonderful world of.oCan I go down front??oWill you be scared by yourself??I ran to the first row of the near emptytheater, larger pictures, louder sound. likeclosing the door of the room youT ve justentered alone. On the screen appeared theonly person to ever film bigfoot, mountainman Patterson and his 8mm. headlongrunning footage. There were Northwesternpines, broken trees and bramble from theprevious Winter moving past your view asthe tall, dark monster long stepped throughabroad clearing. Black hair shining, armsswinging almost to the knee, it turned intothe break, glancing back once, and receededinto forrest, as lin my seat. Footprints plastercast. Still photographs. FBI analysis of hairand dung. I sat nonchalant to push away theinstinct flight.The pictures pick up speed, dusky oran gelight on a forrest edge, sticks and limbs piledagainst a stream, the absence of sound, formoments counting, waiting for the soundthat came: terrible moan calling, creshend.fall, dying back into the miles of trees. Andnow I am running trying to walk. I am blindin the aisle. I overshoot my father.oI just wanted to tuck you in goodnight...?oT already got tucked in.?oI know.? I lie back down; my eyessqeak as I rub them.He covers the few paces, wrinkled button-down hanging over his belt, still in polyestermanager clothes; one hand swings at ease,the other, fist- clenched. The hall lightshrinks. The dishes, clink again, and his bigarms circle out, under and around me and thepillow. His breath is warm as he kisses mycheek.oLT love you. ~NightT?oI love you too.?He sqeezes me tight once to end the hug.I close my eyes and pretend; do not see himturn, shirt-rustling; do not see the shrinkingframe, hall light. My heart is racing.Do I sleep well?For fifteen minutes, I listen to the drumin my chest. The sound comes from underwater; I hear it in my ears, rolling inside awave. When my eyes open finally, againstmy will, the house is silent. A single shaft ofhall light strikes the hard tile floor, rug, andup the wall. The door is ajar. It takes all myyears of gathering fears to put aside, to movethe covers off, swing my feet to the floor.Slow, single action, stand, and walk like anindian on the balls of my feet" this is howto move unheard in the forest" the door. Iturn the knob, closing centimeters at a timeuntil without an audible click, the hall outsidedisappears.I stand in the dark room listening a whilebefore I turn on the light; freeze for longseconds before I run to my bed and pull backthe pillow, and it has happened: quarters,dimes, nickels. Several dollars in change,more than I have ever gotten.I fall asleep thinking of thread tied todoor knobs, and teeth. The marsh is faraway.

JudgesAVISUAL ARTLaura DavisBenito HuertaDr. Sharon PruittALITERATUREDr. Norman RosenfeldDr. William HallbergDr. Patrick BizzaroDr. Richard TaylorRebel StaffEditorLinda ClarkArt Director/LayoutDavid W. YarbroughAssistant EditorTraci TreatPoetry EditorDeborah P. GriggsProse EditorCarol MaynardAWARDSARTISTKiyomi TalaulicarIt's Just a Matter of Skin2ND 3RDDavid C. Behrens Fred ChampionMC Hammerhead On the Three CyclePOETRYISTDoug SmithPura Vida2ND 3RDJoseph P. Campbell David C. BehrensGuys and Dolls NightfallPROSEISTGillian AshleyBurgundy Plum2ND 3RDStephen Schaubach Susan AmbertAfter Taps Second Story99Acknowledgements: The Rebel staff would like to thank thoseindividuals who helped make this year's publication possible: Mrs. Y vonneMoye and Mr. Greg Brown for their efficiency and warmth in dealing withour difficulties; the University Media Board; Ms. Laura Davis, Mr.Benito Huerta and Dr. Sharon Pruitt for judging this year's art competi-tion: Dr. Norman Rosenfeld, Mr. William Hallberg, Dr. Patrick Bizzaro,and Dr. Richard Taylor for judging this year's literature contest; NickHoneycutt and Sherrie Davis for their optimism; Dr. David Sanders for hisunderstanding; Dave, Mr. Wheat, and Penny for warmth on the homefront.The entire staff sends unlimited gratitude and love to Joseph Campbellfor his knowledge and support. David would like to personally thank thefollowing persons who alleviated the stress and believed: Leigh; Sue andEric (studio buddies); Scott, Eric and Jamin; Todd Lovett, Ezmo and theSuckie Some D*** Chorus; Karen and Steve, Evan, Pat and Ann, Theo,Carol, M+D, M+M, Rik and Todd.~SPRING Nm

- STE Sa > FRADE Be! tae OS Oe Pere Foe 5 ve ot RB Me Hew- C29 SSOP SS TD BOTT a *ss ~e FyTHEavai eaaiiiamaésR EG aN La tigaMy FN DLESS > """"___"_"_"LLL TOT LES aee HORIZONS aOFoe 6 'RWe do not understand all there is to know about how color does what it does, but we do know that color enhances56 your message, gives your sales pitch greater impact, and insures better return on dollars you invest in printing.When you want to make the most of color, have your printed pieces produced by the CarolinasT quality color printers. |WeTre known as Theo. Davis Sons, in friendly Zebulon.THEO. DAVIS SONS, INC.| PRINTERS - LITHOGRAPHERS :| P.O. Box 277 « Highway 97 West| Telephone 919/269-7401 © Fax 919/269-5647Zebulon, North Carolina 27597 |=able contribution of:| | $ 250 Benefactor | $ 125 Patron & $ 50 SponserName: Address:Saas] [ want to help provide an outlet for student expression by supporting te Rebel, East CarolinaUniversity Literary-Art magazine. I have enclosed my tax deductPlease make checks payable to ECU/ Rebel and return to:Phone: RebelMendenhall Student CenterEast Carolina UniversityGreenville, NC 278584353.U8 City State: Zip Code:OE eee RS ieee Seeasat 1991

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